Takeoff

We have a certain amount of ritual in my family when it comes to air travel. My wife and I have made it our practice to hold hands on takeoff and landing. I'm not sure if this is in hopes of forestalling some vast cosmic irony - like having some major malfunction or calamity while entering or leaving the sky. Maybe we're just taking the opportunity to connect at that moment: the beginning of another great adventure.
This morning as the Airbus 319 roared down the runway, I was very conscious of my wife's right hand in my left. My son was too consumed with what was happening outside his window to share in our reverie. I put my right hand on his back, and listened to the acceleration. I could feel the warmth of my family as the nose of the plane started to lift, then the wheels left the ground, and we were flying.
I continued to stare out the window, watching my son and the earth slip away. I could feel his breath, and my wife's pulse. We were going home.
We rolled up the plains and over the mountains. We climbed over the foothills and above the Continental Divide. I watched until I couldn't recognize specific landmarks or shapes. Soon it was just sky with clouds in sharp relief and grey and purple mountain majesty below. It seemed like a long time, but we were halfway out of Colorado before I let go of my wife and son to return to my copy of "Rolling Stone." Below us, life returned to normal.